"Энди Макнаб. Кризис четвертого (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

loadies (load masters) were moving around with orienteering lights
attached to their heads, glowing a dim red so as not to destroy our night
vision.
Each of them had an umbilical cord trailing from his face mask, and
their hands moved instinctively to make sure it didn't get snagged or
detached from the aircraft's oxygen supply.
I unzipped the bag and, even through my all-weather sniper suit,
immediately felt the freezing cold in the unpressurized 747 cargo hold. None
of the passengers or cabin crew would have known there were people down
here, tucked away in the belly of the aircraft. Nor would our names have
appeared anywhere on a manifest.
I folded the bag in half, leaving inside the two "aircrew bags" I'd
filled during the flight-plastic bags with a one-way valve that you insert
yourself into and piss away to your heart's content. I wondered how Sarah
had been getting on. It was bad enough for me because my cock was still
extremely sore, but it must be hard being female aircrew on a long flight
with a device designed only for males-and the female commander of a deniable
op. I put a Post-It on my mental bulletin board, reminding myself to ask her
how she got around the problem. That was if we survived, of course, and were
still on speaking terms.
I could never remember which was starboard or port; all I knew was
that, as you looked at the aircraft from the front, we were in the small
hold at the rear and the door was on the left-hand side. I clutched my
oxygen tube as a lo adie crossed over it, and adjusted my mask as his leg
caught it, pulling it slightly from my face. The inside was wet, clammy and
cold now the seal had been broken.
I picked up my Car 15, a version of the M16 Armalite 5.56mm with a
telescopic butt and a shorter barrel, cocked it and applied the safety. The
Car had a length of green para cord tied to it like a sling; I strapped it
over my left shoulder so the barrel faced down and it ran along the rear of
my body. The rig (parachute) would go over that.
I pushed my hand under the sniper suit to get hold of the Beretta 9mm
that was on a leg holster against my right thigh. I cocked that, too, and
pulled back the top slide a few millimeters to check the chamber. Turning
the weapon so it caught one of the loadies' red glows, I saw the glint of a
correctly fed round, ready to go.
This was my first "false flag" job posing as a member of Israeli
special forces, and as I adjusted my leg straps I wished I'd had a little
more time to recover from the circumcision. It hadn't healed as quickly as
we'd been told. I looked around me as we got our kit on, hoping the others
were in as much pain.
We were about to carry out a "lift" to find out what the West's new
bogeyman, Osama Bin Laden, a Saudi multimillionaire turned terrorist, was
getting up to in Syria. Satellite photography had shown earth moving and
other heavy equipment from Bin Laden's construction company near the source
of the river Jordan. Downstream lay Israel, and if its main source of water
was about to be dammed, diverted or otherwise tampered with, the West needed
to know. They feared a repeat of the 1967 war, and with Bin Laden around it
was never going to be a good day out. He hadn't been dubbed America's